


Close Your Eyes and Count to Ten

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lestrade's a bit confused, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Sherlock To The Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a panic attack at a crime scene, and Sherlock knows just what to do to calm him down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes and Count to Ten

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by the song "Close Your Eyes and Count to Ten" by Grouplove, and I remembered that one of my teachers used to do this to calm herself down when she was getting frustrated. Hope you like it (:

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s gruff voice echoed through the tattered walls of the abandoned flat.

The detective’s head perked up like a cat’s after hearing the inspector’s yell, but he only rolled his eyes and went back to examining the blood splatter on the dry, cracked wallpaper.

“ _Sherlock!”_ Something in the man’s voice was different that time, Sherlock thought, as he clicked his pocket magnifying glass closed and slipped it in his pocket. He heaved himself up off the dust-laden wooden floors and brushed the remaining particles off his trousers.

He crossed the hall in an angry huff, his fists shoved into his coat pockets.

“This had better be important, Lestrade,” he bellowed to the empty air as he approached the door, “I was right in the middle of—“

Sherlock stopped as soon as he stepped into the other room. It was a small bedroom that was decaying happily along with the rest of the place. Lestrade stood next to a rotting bed frame, looking frantic and wide-eyed as he attempted to hold onto John, who appeared to have collapsed onto him. 

John was slumped over awkwardly, half leaning against Lestrade and half threatening to fall over. He was breathing heavily and his hand was fisted into Lestrade’s jacket, grasping it as if his life depended on it.

“What do I _do_?” Lestrade pleaded, trying to hold a hand out in question without letting go of John.

Sherlock grit his teeth in irritation. “What happened?” he snapped, stepping in a little further. “And where are Anderson and Donovan? This is a crime scene, not a romance novel. I hope to god they didn’t sneak into some broom closet. Lord help us all if—“

“Sherlock, they left to get coffee just before John—well, will you _help_ me? Quit standing there!” Lestrade barked.

“Let go of him,” Sherlock ordered, stomping across the room.

“But he’ll fall if I—“

“Just give him to me,” Sherlock interrupted, already beginning to gingerly take John from Lestrade’s hold. “John,” he said, holding him up from underneath his arms. “John, snap out of it," he said a little more sternly.

“Mmf,” John mumbled in reply.

“See there, inspector? All it takes is a little provoking.” Sherlock smirked, and lifted his friend up a bit more as he came back to his senses.

Lestrade backed up a bit, open-mouthed with his hands on his hips. Sherlock leaned John up against the wall and placed his hand over his face, checking quickly for fever, and then moving his fingers to his neck to take his pulse.

“Tell me what happened,” Sherlock said as he examined his friend.

Lestrade took a deep breath. “We were doing the same thing that we were doing in the room with you; looking over the photos of the other victims, but you said you needed space to ‘think’ remember?”

“Yes, so you came in here, I know, and then what happened?” Sherlock asked, barely glancing at Lestrade as he cupped John’s cheek with his hand and tried to get him to say something coherent.

“I asked John a question but he wasn’t answering, then I look up and the poor man looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“Paler than me, hm?” Sherlock joked.

“Yeah, and then he was shaking a bit, and breathing too fast. He looked like he was in pain before he just melted onto my shoulder. So, should I call the hospital or—“

“No. Leave,” Sherlock barked, pointing his finger at the door while keeping one hand on John.

Lestrade didn’t protest, and made his way out, shaking his head wearily. As soon as Sherlock was sure that Lestrade was out of eyesight, he took John carefully into his arms, holding him from behind and steering him so that his own back was to the wall and John was in front of him.

As gently as he could, Sherlock lowered himself and John to the floor and sat with the doctor propped up between his long legs. He wrapped his arms around John’s midsection as he shuffled around enough to make sure they were comfortable.

“Alright, John?” he asked, feeling the doctor breathe in shuddering breaths.

“Yeah,” he rasped, barely above a whisper.

Now Sherlock could feel John begin to settle into the embrace, leaning back into Sherlock’s chest. The taller man methodically lifted up John’s arm, uncurled his fist, and placed it at his side, repeating the process for the other hand. When that was done, he took his own palm and put it directly over John’s stomach. There, he could feel every single tremor running through John’s veins. He felt the shakes increase and decrease in severity at random intervals, as if testing the scale of an earthquake.

He didn’t speak, he just kept his hand on John, feeling him breathe, in and out, entirely unevenly at first, and eventually calming down a bit. He could still feel the shaking, could still see the way John's legs quivered and how his left hand tried desperately to curl back up into a fist.

After a few more moments, Sherlock took the hand that wasn’t resting on John’s abdomen and placed it over his ear. He used this hold to tip the doctor’s head back so that it was sitting on his shoulder and the man was essentially staring at the ceiling.

“You know how this works, John. Close your eyes,” Sherlock said quietly, dusting his fingers over John’s eyelids to encourage them to close that last little bit.

“Now breathe, deeply, in and out.”

John complied, albeit shakily.

“Good, and again,” he said, watching as John inhaled deeply through his noise and exhaled through his mouth.

“Now, we’re going to count to ten. Are you ready?” Sherlock asked, and with his hand still kept on the side of John’s head, he felt him nod minutely.

“Alright, repeat after me,” Sherlock started, “One,” he said.

“One,” John uttered in a harsh whisper.

“Two.”

John coughed a bit, and sat up straighter. “Two,” he repeated.

“Three.”

He took a deep breath. “Three.”

“Four,” Sherlock drawled.

“Four,” John said a little louder, his voice starting to come back to him.

“Five. Halfway there.”

“Five.”

From the room down the hall, Sherlock could hear Lestrade’s muffled voice explaining something to Donovan. He heard a few footsteps, and then, just out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade begin to step in the room, and immediately retreat.

“Six,” Sherlock continued, trying to ignore the fact that he knew Lestrade was peeking around the door frame, watching them.

John cleared his throat, still keeping his eyes shut. “Six.”

“Seven.”

“Seven.”

“Eight. Almost there,” Sherlock reassured, noticing that John’s stomach was no longer trembling with such force.

“Eight,” John parroted with more confidence.

“Nine. Doing swimmingly, John,” Sherlock teased.

“Nine.”

“And finally, on ten, open your eyes.” Sherlock waited a moment, not only for John to take another deep breath, but to make sure that Lestrade sensed that was his cue to quit prying.

“Ten,” Sherlock said, smirking when he looked up to see that Lestrade had fled, and he could hear him bickering with Anderson down the hall.

“Ten.” John sighed with relief, slowing craning open his eyes.

“There we are,” Sherlock chuckled, running his hands playfully through John’s short hair.

John let out a relieved breath and sat forward a bit. He put his face in his hands and wiped at his tired eyes.

“Can you walk?” Sherlock asked, holding his hands by John’s hips in case he needed support.

“Pretty sure, thanks.” John’s words were tight and clipped, and muffled a bit as he continued to wipe at his face.

“Right. Up you get, then.”

Even with John’s quick reassurance of his stability, Sherlock helped him up from the floor and wrapped a supporting arm around his waist.

“Lestrade!” he shouted, waiting a moment. “I know you’re standing right in the hall!” 

The inspector stepped into view, not fully entering the room. “What d’you need?” he asked.

“Hail us a cab, will you?”

Lestrade immediately obliged, heading downstairs with just a tiny nod of acquiescence. Sherlock had figured that by the time he helped John down the stairs and onto the street, they’d already have a taxi waiting.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, John stoically refused help when going up the steps, but Sherlock stood behind him with a hand out just in case.

When John made the turn on the landing to the steps that lead to his room, Sherlock put both hands on his shoulders and steered him away.

“Nope. My room; you know the drill," he said, careening his friend through the entryway to the kitchen.

“ _Sherlock—_ “

“Shut up. Now go lie down. I won’t be a moment.”

Sherlock could practically hear John rolling his eyes as he sauntered off unsteadily to Sherlock’s bedroom.

He shrugged off his greatcoat and carelessly flung it onto an armchair along with his trusted scarf. He flicked the kettle on, filled a glass with water and brought it with him into his bedroom.

Upon entering, he found John to be sprawled dramatically across his ruffled sheets, still donning his jacket and shoes.

“Must I do everything?” Sherlock muttered to himself as he placed the water down on the night table.

As he slid off John’s shoes, he could hear him moaning in protest, grumbling something under his breath.

“Come on, up now,” Sherlock said, taking his friend by the waist and hauling him up so he could slide off his jacket. John kept his eyes closed, looking thoroughly exhausted and generally disgruntled.

“It’s okay John, you’re alright," Sherlock assured.

“Yeah, I know, thank you,” John replied sarcastically, his head landing back on the pillow with a plop.

“Just rest, you’ll be fine.”

“I am fine," John grumbled as Sherlock pulled the duvet over him.

“Of course you are. There’s water here, and I’m making tea, even though I know you won’t drink it, but you’ll complain if I don’t make it because it’s the gesture that counts, right?”

“You’re learning,” he mumbled sleepily.

Sherlock chuckled deeply, clasping his hands behind his back and looking at his worn out flatmate. He was about to leave when he stopped short.

“Do you need anything, John? Anything at all?”

It felt like an eternity before John murmured an answer.

“Time,” he said.

 Sherlock nodded, and closed the door behind him after he left.

* * *

Sherlock closed the curtains on the long paned windows in the sitting room. The sky outside was turning a muddy shade of blue, getting darker by the minute it seemed. He sniffled, rolling up his sleeves and looking around the flat for anything else that was out of place.

John had been sleeping for over an hour, and in that time, Sherlock found that he couldn’t find one thing to focus on. The case was Lestrade’s problem now, he decided, realizing that whatever triggered John was most likely due to the nature of the case, and it would prove pointless to try to work _around_ John rather than with him.

Sherlock looked down at the desk next to him and fixed a few piles of papers, shuffling them up together just to make them look neater. He organized a couple files, just to distract himself from wanting to check on John again. He almost jumped in his skin when he heard the door downstairs slam shut. He hadn’t even heard Mrs. Hudson let anyone in, and yet there were Lestrade’s unmistakable grumpy footsteps coming up the stairs.

Lestrade entered the room in a bit of a tizzy, seeming slightly dazed as he noticed how neat the place was looking. Before the man could get a word out of his mouth, Sherlock put a finger to his lips, telling him to shush. He stepped forward so that he could talk to Lestrade quietly.

“Are those the case details?” Sherlock asked, pointing to the folder in Lestrade’s hand.

“Yeah, just stopped by to drop them off, figured you would need—“

“Keep them.”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not working the case, Lestrade.”

“Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing?”

“I'm sorry, were you not at the crime scene this afternoon? You saw what happened to John.“

“Actually, I have no idea what happened to John; you just took off with him.”

“He had a panic attack, as if it weren’t obvious. Something at the scene or something in the photos you were looking at must have set him off, though I’m not sure exactly what. And I can’t work a case that could potentially trigger him at any moment.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know he—“

“PTSD, yes. He’ll never admit it. We don’t talk about it. Now, you were leaving?” Sherlock asked, getting ready to turn around, back to his mindless organizing.

“Hang on a sec,” Lestrade said, shifting the folder to the other hand and looking at Sherlock with a bit more apprehension.

“What _is_ it?” Sherlock snarled, turning back to face him.

“What you did today, with John...”

“Huh, so you admit to being a peeping Tom,” Sherlock muttered.

“I was not peeping. It's not like the door was locked, or closed for that matter. But I’m just saying, I couldn’t look away because, hell, I’ve never seen you handle anything with such…such—“

“Care?” Sherlock snapped. “Is that it? You think I can’t be considerate for even one moment?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“How did you know what to do?” the words tumbled from Lestrade’s mouth as if he’d been holding them back. He shrugged and looked down at the floor. “When he fell on me, I didn’t even know what happened, let alone what to do about it. Then you came in and just got to work like it was some routine.”

“It is, in a way,” Sherlock said, a little quieter.

“What d’you mean?”

“This isn’t the first time John’s had a panic attack. At first he tried to hide them from me, and we all know that was a pipe dream. Then I showed him a trick my mother used to use when she needed to calm down. Worked like a charm, and I’ve been helping him ever since.”

“Blimey, I hate to sound surprised, but that’s actually really good of you.”

“Of course it is, I’m the kindest person you know, Lestrade. My heart’s obviously just _seeping_ with warmth.”

The inspector chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

“That’s the real reason you came to see me, isn’t it? Got a little jealous of the army doctor?” Sherlock smirked and opened his arms as if to give a hug.

“Ha, I don’t think so.” Lestrade smiled, backing away from Sherlock’s open arms.

“Come on inspector, bring it in,” he said, gesturing towards himself.

“I’m good, thanks,” Lestrade assured, stepping a little closer to the door.

“Oh, be a sport, Greg,” Sherlock teased, edging closer to him.

“No, really, I think I’ll take your word for it,” he said as he continued to back away.

“Positive? I hear I’m unnaturally warm.”

Lestrade just rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s antics and turned to leave as he finally backed up past the threshold.

“ _That’s_ what I thought,” Sherlock laughed, clicking the door shut with a triumphant smirk.

As soon as Sherlock turned around, John strolled out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, rubbing at his eyes as he threw Sherlock’s coat off his armchair.

“You should be sleeping,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

“And you should get a haircut, but you don’t hear me nagging,” John quipped, fluffing the pillow in his chair a bit before sitting down.

“You think it’s getting long again? I can still see past my fringe, so it’s not—“

“Sherlock, sit down,” John said calmly.

The taller man obliged, taking in John’s appearance as he sat. His eyes were tired and red, his face still pale. His hair was a bit ruffled from either tossing and turning in the bed or running his fingers through it.

“You heard Lestrade and I?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“Hm? No, I jus’ got up. Was he asking about the case?”

“Yes, I told him I won’t be taking it. Obviously something about it didn’t sit right with you.”

“Yeah,” John sighed, staring at his feet. “Sorry ‘bout that. “

“It bothered you from the beginning, didn’t it?”

John nodded sullenly. “It was an interesting case. You were excited. I didn’t want to shove my ridiculous anxieties at you.”

“You should’ve said something. I’d rather not have to walk into rooms to find you clinging to Lestrade for dear life.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right."

After staying silent for a good couple of minutes, John got himself up out of his chair and went to the fireplace to start building up some flames.

The fire was glowing bright, sending warm orange lights flickering off the walls. John sat himself down in front of it, crossing his legs and staring into the heat.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Sometimes I think I’m over it, y’know?” John asked slowly. “Like, that’ll be the last one, for sure. As if I have any say in the matter.” He shrugged, still not looking at Sherlock.

“You really don’t, John, for the most part. It’s not like trying to quit cigarettes, so don’t think it is. You went through a traumatic experience. It would be strange if you _weren’t_ affected by it.”

“Still feel like a bloody idiot,” John muttered.

“You think it makes you seem weak, vulnerable. It doesn’t.”

“Yeah? I could barely walk after that episode and you know it. Thank you for shutting up about it, by the way.”

Sherlock nodded and got up to join John next to the fire.

“What I don’t understand,” John started, “is that I can run all around this city with you, see terrible things; explosions, weapons, the whole bit, and come back here at night, laughing and eating takeaway. Then, I look at a few crime scene photos, and suddenly I’m shaking so bad you’d think I was standing starkers in the middle of a blizzard.”

“John, you and I both know you’re triggered by more specific things. It wasn’t just the photos; there was probably a panic building in your chest all week that you’d been stifling. This afternoon was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

John made a noncommittal noise of agreement and stared into the fire for a bit longer. Sherlock looked to his left and could see John smirking to himself.

“You want to know what it was, don’t you?” John asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I can leave it alone. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s been bugging you, I can tell.”

“I don’t want to- to set you off or—“

“Just let me tell you before you go off and deduce it behind my back.”

“Okay.” Sherlock nodded, looking to John expectantly.

“You were right, by the way, as if your ego needed any help. I _was_ bothered right from the start. You remember at that first crime scene, I offered to go get everyone coffee?”

“Yes, that did seem a bit out of character, but not drastically so.”

“And you were high as a kite on excitement, like a child in a toy shop. Bit disturbing, really, you should work on that. Anyway, you must’ve been too excited to notice my shaking. I could barely look at the victim.”

“Knife wounds, all across the man’s back. He had a design carved into his flesh. I thought it was fascinating.”

“And you thought the next two designs were fascinating as well, yeah?”

“Yes, but you didn’t.”

“No, Sherlock,” John chided. “I did not find designs carved into people’s backs by a knife ‘ _fascinating_ ’. And I didn’t find it fascinating in Afghanistan either, when—“ the doctor stopped, steeling himself and taking a deep breath.

“What happened, John?”

“It was one of my mates, Evans. He and a couple other fellows, they were in a very wrong place at a very wrong time. Got captured by insurgents who thought they had information.”

“They were tortured,” Sherlock stated.

“Yes, thank you,” John snapped. “Now they didn’t get bloody _designer_ knife wounds, but the malice and the damage was still there. We got them out, but two of them, two of them were—“

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Just Evans and I think Bennett got out. I had to see to Evans’ injuries.” John’s voice trailed off, and he turned his head away from Sherlock.

“He was a friend, then.”

“A good one. But he wasn’t the same, after, I mean. And I know you’ve seen some pretty gruesome wounds in your job, but it’s different when the person you’re examining is alive, and in pain, and a…and a friend.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock just let John have some silence. He looked at his friend and could see the hurt in his eyes, could tell he was quietly recalling the event.

“Should I make tea?” Sherlock asked.

John grinned a bit. “Yeah, and I think I’ll actually drink it this time.”

“Good, because that ‘thought that counts’ notion is rubbish. And a waste of tea.”

As Sherlock got up to put on the kettle, he could see John trying to hide a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock putting his hand on John's stomach was actually something that someone did to me when I was having an anxiety attack. I was shaking in the same way, and it helped calm me down a bit. 
> 
> Well I hope you guys enjoyed, and as always, thanks so much for reading, and I welcome feedback with open arms x3


End file.
